I make the long trek even though I now live so far it would make more sense to find somewhere closer. I make the [...]]]> The morning, the mirror and me. No grey, yet. Whiskers are a little long. Beard’s growing in a little too much for my liking. I’m rough around the edges. It’s time.

I make the long trek even though I now live so far it would make more sense to find somewhere closer. I make the long trek even though it’s minus 10,  there’s heavy snow falling and brown slush everywhere. I make the long trek not because I have to, but because I want to.

I get off the bus and walk toward the entrance that separates Canada from the Caribbean, fooling myself, as always, that there won’t be that many people there, I’ll be the next person in the chair, and the whole thing will take half an hour. As always, I’m wrong. The joint is packed which means a long wait, made longer still because I, like most guys, am waiting for a specific barber.

Fifteen  men of colour, some old, some young in a small narrow room, with yellow, green and beige walls decorated with cultural heroes. Boxers, historical figures, signed photos of black celebrities, maps of Africa and Caribbean islands are all there. People pass through, not just for a haircut, but to celebrate birthdays and have a rum, to buy anything from clothing to mixed cds, or play dominoes on the back balcony. Sometimes there’s reggae, dancehall or lovers rock, blasting out of invisible speakers; other times there’s a dvd of  one of the latest movies in theaters (acquired through nefarious means no doubt) playing on a screen hanging in the upper right corner. And sometimes, there are both at the same time competing with  not only each other but accented voices as well. Today it’s an animated movie, most likely in honor of two underage brothers waiting for their turn.

“Artaa “he shouts as I head for an empty seat at the back of the room. ‘He’ is Gallespie, the man’s whose name is on the banner outside. Known by his last name, he calls everyone by theirs. He might also call you by the country you’re from or by a nickname. I’m surrounded by street smarts, maturity, and youthful folly. I’m an insider, but an outsider as well. There seems to be tension in the air, no, not in the air, in me. My strategy: make my way to the back of the room with as little fanfare as possible, quietly wait in a chair, make no sudden movements, and not say a word before it’s my turn in the chair, lest I draw too much attention to myself. That would be a bad thing. It’s a barber shop, but can also be a verbal war zone and not wanting to be caught in the crossfire, I keep quiet. There are loud arguments over sports scores and jersey numbers, debates about what the government is doing wrong and disagreements and discussions about Jamaica being the best team in the Olympics. I can only imagine what a passersby must think. But the heated discussions are misleading. Watch closely and listen carefully, and you sense a certain unity and subtle harmony. Soon all is forgotten, and it’s back to the business of cutting hair. The main topic for debate when I enter seems to be life in Canada vs life in Jamaica. An older man, sitting in one of the empty barber chairs claims life in Jamaica is better than life in Canada. Some agree with him, but Gallespie doesn’t.

I know better than to give my two cents. Arguments for either side would be met with a “shut up, what do you know, Canadian?”

Gallespie is, all at once, barber, sports analyst, health expert, minister, father, uncle teacher, love guru and comedian never short on insults. His zingers sting, but to be in his shop and not be teased would be the real insult.

Just when the voices reach a fever pitch, the little kid sitting in his chair hops out, and I’m up next.

“Come Artaa” Gallespie shouts in his gruff  Jamaican, making me wonder what I did wrong. I sit tentatively in the chair. He he throws a blue drape around me and prepares his instruments, like a surgeon prepares for an operation.

“You cutting or lining?” he asks. Translation: Do you want an actual haircut or just a quick trim around the forehead, temples, mustache and chin, to even out the hair, or line it up?

“Cutting” I say.

“So same as last time den?” he asks.

“You remember what I asked for last time? How can you? You cut so many heads a day and I haven’t been here in a while.”

“So what?  I rememba.” With that, the process begins. He pauses occasionally to add his voice to whatever the new topic is, motioning this way and that, scissors, or razor still in hand. My eyes follow them closely as they swing dangerously close to my ears and cheeks, but not once does he ever cut me. A phone rings. “Hallo Gallespie” he barks into the phone. It amazes me how he can yell at someone on the phone, yell at customers in the shop, bark out orders to his friend  to bring him take out Jamaican from down the street all while giving me the perfect fade. I wait it out, and focus on a laminated picture of the Million Man March behind him.

He works quickly after that, balancing with his eye to ensure evenness. To finish, an intricate design along the temple, like an artist signing his work. The process over, the tension gone, I pay the man what he’s owed and head for the door, but not before he quickly gets in a few more jabs about Bajans being cheap, cackling at his own jokes, like Ernie from Sesame Street. Back in Canada, I walk to the 105 stop feeling like a new man, sharp and crisp as the ten and five I gave him. I forget the cold and snow and let the whole experience sink in. Funny, what a simple haircut can do.

Every few years, a song comes along that makes us all want to dance.  This isn’t your ordinary chart topper that disappears in a week or two; no, it’s a scintillating single with a secret weapon:  a dance. Oh it seems [...]]]>  Going gaga for Gangnam?  Surprise! You’ve just been swept up in a dance craze!

Every few years, a song comes along that makes us all want to dance.  This isn’t your ordinary chart topper that disappears in a week or two; no, it’s a scintillating single with a secret weapon:  a dance. Oh it seems innocent enough at first, but it slowly seeps into the consciousness of the general public with its infectious and catchy chorus, and before you know it, rhythm-less people the world over have collectively lost their minds, and having epileptic like convulsions trying to imitate that “new dance”.

Love em or hate em, here are 5 songs and dance combos we couldn’t get enough of, until they got to be too much.

PSY- Gangnam Style

Unless you’ve been living in Honey Boo Boo’s basement for the last 2 months, (and even there I bet you they were doing it after chowing down on a healthy dinner of ghetti ) you know this is the most recent dance craze.  In the past two weeks alone, there’s been Gangam style moments on tv daily, from talk shows, to Saturday Night Live, to a man posting a video of his baby that will only eat if the video is playing in front of him. I’m pretty sure PSY is getting as tired of doing this dance as we are of seeing it. I’m also pretty sure there’s about to be a Gangam style work out video called ‘Working out – Gangnam Style with Psy!’ Order now and get a free pair of Psy sunglasses!

Michel Telo – Ai Se Eu Te Pego

Since I was living in Europe at the time, I’m not sure what this song did in the rest of the world, but trust me, there was no shortage of people imitating baby faced Michel Telo’s concert video dance moves over there. My Portuguese is pretty bad, but I’m told so are his lyrics.  There was something disturbing about a tv news report on  how popular the song was with everyone and showing a class of elementary school kids grinding their hips while singing the lyrics in unison. What ever happened to singing old macdonald or the hokey pokey?

Las Ketchup – Asereje

Who would have thought 3 sexy Spanish girls singing something  like “I said a hey, ha, doobie doobie do doobie to the beat” while frantically waving their hands back and forth would catch on? I hope they enjoyed their 15minutes of fame, because naming your group after a condiment doesn’t really suggest longevity.

Los Del Rio – La Macarena

If you’re mad at Spain for those ketchup girls, keep some of your anger for their grandparents, a.k.a.  Los Del Rio. These two dudes came out of nowhere in 1995 and took over the airwaves for a while. Just when you thought it was over and never had to hear the song again, the remix version started popping up in clubs just in case we weren’t tired of hearing on daytime radio.

Kaoma – La Lambada

As far as dance craze songs go, this is the grand-daddy of them all.  It crossed over into mainstream pop culture everywhere  and before long was referenced on sit-coms, taught on talk shows and played  by cover bands at weddings galore. Close your eyes and let the melody instantly transport you to a beach in Bahia, just like in the video!  Speaking of which, watch how even a mean dad who forbids his cute daughter from dancing with a peasant boy (you go peasant boy!) finally has to give into the scandalous “forbidden dance”. Ahhh, the power of a dance craze!

Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out…

For sure. My dreams, though never defined, definitely involved traveling abroad, determined to make it out of my neighborhood. I’d left once [...]]]> After a year away from home, I couldn’t wait to be in familiar surroundings. Until I was reminded of what those surroundings were…

Welcome back, your dreams were your ticket out…

For sure. My dreams, though never defined, definitely involved traveling abroad, determined to make it out of my neighborhood. I’d left once before several years ago and came back so technically this is round two. In both cases, wherever I was in the world or whatever I was doing, there was an ever present thought in the back of my mind.  It was there on Koh Chang, while walking along the beach in the moonlight with a French girl I’d just met, almost too pretty to be real. It was there at a party in the Swedish embassy in Tokyo, wine glass in hand, surrounded by rich types, feeling like an extra in a Bond movie.  It was with me at Café Flore in Paris, as I sipped my café avec chantilly and croissant. I made sure to enjoy every minute of every moment. Because I knew.  I knew I was on borrowed time. Sooner or later the jig would be up and I’d have to return to my reality. Sure enough, here I am, back home where I started.
Welcome back to that same old place that you laughed about…

Sort of.  Except, I COMPLAINED more than I laughed.  From the cracked crooked sidewalks, to the abandoned factories, the old neighborhood was exactly just as I left it: OLD. One of the reasons for leaving home in the first place was because my neighborhood sucked. After a year, I thought maybe, just maybe, things might have changed, even if  just a little. No such luck. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

Well, the names have all changed since you hung around…

Yes and No. The new neighbors are just as noisy as the old ones and the same haggard looking people are shuffling around the local poor excuse of a shopping mall.  Still see the same crazies in the streets. Same people on the bus heading downtown. Familiarity breeds contempt.

But those dreams have remained and they’ve turned around…

Have they? Do I still have my dream of leaving? Making it out of my ‘hood’? The desire’s still there, but I’m hoping the universe keeps pulling me back here for a reason other than making me resign to a fate of  joining the shuffling elderly and woebegone at the mall. I’ve just been handed lemons again. Better get busy making lemonade.
Who’d have thought they’d lead ya, back here where we need ya…

Exactly.  My mind is in shallow and turquoise water off a Mallorcan coast, the sun burning brightly. My reality is sitting on the sofa making lemonade (or job hunting online) at home. Hopefully somebody out there is in need of a teacher/writer obsessed with pop culture. Hey- Mr. Kotter got lucky maybe I will too.
Welcome back!

Rome has a way of making you crazy. Not because you can find traffic at any hour of the day, slowing you down, cutting you off or running you over  (if Romans would just carpool instead of everyone and their ‘nonna’ taking their car out for a spin, there’d less congestion. Just my two [...]]]>  

Rome has a way of making you crazy. Not because you can find traffic at any hour of the day, slowing you down, cutting you off or running you over  (if Romans would just carpool instead of everyone and their ‘nonna’ taking their car out for a spin, there’d less congestion. Just my two cents). It doesn’t make you crazy with towering, crumbling yet still impressive aqueducts around every corner,combs stuck halfway into the earth like nephilim castoffs. There were so many in fact I had to constantly keep my camera ready and the battery went dead because of it. No, Rome drives you crazy in a more subtle way. It goes for the gut.

It tempts you with endless choices savory food and sinful desserts. Just like those damn picturesque aqueducts, it was everywhere. Quality food at a corner store? Unheard of in my neck of the woods. One sandwich from a gas station and you’d be lucky if you weren’t up half the night with indigestion. Not in Rome, the land of delicious everything. I won’t bore you with details of  pork chops cooked in white wine, spicy  olives, pistachio cheese, chocolate-orange, spagliatelle, bounty chocolate bar or tiramisu flavoured gelato. I may not be a food critic and my palette not refined, but hey, I know a damn good meal when I eat one.

Yup, Rome definitely has a way of making you crazy fat.

I had it all planned out. I would visit the Alcázar. I would cross the path where a drawbridge once lay, over a deep, empty waterless moat.

I would pay 8 euros to walk the cold stone halls, stand next to ancient weapons of mass destruction, [...]]]> My sweet sweet Ponche,

I had it all planned out. I would visit the Alcázar. I would cross the path where a drawbridge once lay, over a deep, empty waterless moat.

I would pay 8 euros to walk the cold stone halls, stand next to ancient weapons of mass destruction, and view where royalty once sat.

I would marvel at the Aqueduct, the ingenuity and craftsmanship of  Romans left behind for all to see. But what I did not expect to find, walking through the narrow cobblestone streets of old Segovia, was you.

I first came across you at Casares. Your name intrigued me and I had to meet you in person. When I finally did see you, I realized, you did not live up to your name. But it was when you touched my lips, that everything changed. I instantly knew I wanted more. But too quickly you disappeared. I was told you were just around the corner in a little bakery and for 22Euros I could take you home. I wanted to tell my friends about my new love. But mere lip service would not do you justice and so, I brought you with me to introduce you to them. You did not disappoint.

They too, fell under your spell, enticed by your liquor.

Upon returning home to Catalonia, I have searched for you everywhere. I have heard rumors that you can be found throughout the rest of Spain, delighting others as you have me, but I have yet to catch you in the act. Until we meet again, (and we will meet again) I have no choice but to be satisfied with your photos and letters, and will continue to carry a torch. But I do not mind. After all, does not absence make the heart grow fonder?

Sincerely,

Your long distance lover

“Kate we have to go back.”
They spent more than half their time trying to get off the island where their plane crashed. Yet there was Jack, saying he and the others who managed [...]]]> You´ve lived abroad, made local friends and then moved back home. But can the friendships survive?  Here´s what I discovered.

“Kate we have to go back.”
They spent more than half their time trying to get off the island where their plane crashed. Yet there was Jack, saying he and the others who managed to leave the island had to return.
When Jack said those momentous words to Kate in the last episode of the fourth season of LOST, it struck a cord, and not simply because I ‘m an obsessed fan of the show. I empathised. Like him, I was determined to leave an island, and adamant about never returning. But here I am, years later, with a desire to go back.   No, my plane didn’t crash; the island I was on didn’t have mystical healing powers, polar bears or smoke monsters (except for chain smoking business men). However I understood Jack’s reason for wanting to go back.  The lives, friendships, and relationships of the ‘Oceanic Six’ as they were called, were never the same once they made it home. Something felt out of place.  In a sense, it was all very similar to what happened between me and a friend.
Yoshi (not his real name) and I became fast friends around the second year I lived in Tokyo, Japan. Although his English wasn’t the best and my Japanese was passable (ok, it sucked) we still managed to understand each other through our common interests. We shared a love for Hip hop, clubbing, and seeking out little known but cool spots in the city.  Yoshi soon became part our expat English teacher crew, having fun at our Christmas parties, and chowing down with us at TGI Fridays in Shibuya. We’d show him the latest reggae dances, and he’d ask about the meaning of the slang he heard in whatever rap song.
But like the Meiji era, all good things come to an end. One by one, our English teaching crew moved back to their respective homes, leaving Yoshi behind in Japan. Yoshi and I kept in touch, and I encouraged him to visit me in Canada. Though he hasn’t been here (yet), years later, he did move to New York City a popular place with young Japanese who want to improve their English while getting a taste of American life. Excited about a reunion, the first chance I got, I took the 8 hour bus ride from Montreal down to Brooklyn to see him.
My first few visits were great. He was excited to be living in a new city, and like old times, we would seek out trendy cafes or cool nightclubs, went shopping, and basically, just hung out. But it was on my third visit, that things began to change.
I had four days, and wanted to make them count.  I made a list of specific places I wanted to check out.  But almost every time I’d ask him to take me somewhere, he’d refuse, and said he’d rather do or go somewhere else. He wouldn’t even let me treat him to lunch at a restaurant on my ¨must do¨ list  that was recommended by a friend. Instead we went to a place he chose, which I really really hated.
We couldn’t agree on much of anything it seemed; things were not quite right and nothing was the way it used to be. At times, it even felt like he hated things simply because I liked them and was being disagreeable for the sake of it. I know I was. While I wanted to go to UNIQLO and MUJI, he wanted to avoid all things Japanese, whether it was clothing, food or music.
While hanging out in Manhattan, he mentioned he needed to get a pair of new VANS shoes. Seeing as how I owed him some cash from our Tokyo days, I offered to pay for them.

Fashion trend or fashion faux pas?

“Yeah it does look like you could use a new pair” I said. “Those are pretty beat up.”
“Everybody wears dirty vans” he said as if he purposely got them to look that way.
“Really?”  I said doubtfully. “I never heard that”. The clothing store where I worked at the time,  is a hipster Mecca, yet this trend was news to me.  Not long after, the fashion gods decided to prove him right as we made our way back to his place.
“See look”, Yoshi said pointing at some random guy’s hole- riddled and stained vans on the subway, “I told you”.
There was a definite a shift in the balance of the friendship. In Japan, he would look to me as a guide to what was hot in the western world and never really cared one way or another about what we did or where we went.  Suddenly he was telling me what was in or out (retro Adidas high tops which I wanted, were, apparently, out) and had definite opinions about where to go, what to do, and what music was good.  Clearly the van was on the other foot.
This was a completely new person. Japan Yoshi had a shaved head, wore baggy clothes and listened mainly to hip hop. New York Yoshi had a full head of hair (something he swore he’d never have), dirty vans, and refused to wear anything but APC, a brand who make the skinniest jeans known to mankind and took me to thrift stores like Beacon’s Closet to find them. He also wore fake black rimmed glasses and now preferred bands like the xx to xzibit.  The whole thing made me miss the Yoshi of old, before he became mauled by hipsterdom.
The third day of my trip was when the ramen hit the fan.  Yoshi said he had to go biking around the city with some friends, which left me on my own with no plans.  Now; I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself and just because I was in town didn’t necessarily mean we had to be joined at the hip. That being said, I was in NYC to see the city but also in part to see my friend, who was quickly becoming a ‘pachanga’. Things weren’t looking too fabolous. We stood on a busy street in a semi heated discussion about where to go next, his biking plans for the next day and my time constraints. Finally, Yoshi said:
“I have work to do at home”.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s just go back to your place then.”
Sitting there in his living room as he typed away on his laptop, I felt like I was intruding on his life, and he was tolerating my presence until he could get back to his real friends.
Eventually, he put his work away, which, “wasn’t that important” he said, and we talked about the last few days.  He said he felt like an ass for ruining the day. I told him not to worry about it.  But eventually I had to say what had been on my mind since the beginning of the trip: that he’d changed, and in some ways, I barely knew him anymore. He explained in Tokyo, one reason he didn’t say much and just went along with everything was because he couldn’t properly express himself in English, not because he didn’t have any opinions.
“I guess you’re finally seeing the real me” he said.  We both apologized for specifics that happened, but the way I see it, it was all about change which, in reality, is no one’s fault. We sometimes want to hold people in a place and time; keep them exactly as we remember,  wishing they were how we want them to be. My trip served to remind me time moves on, and so do people.

Can moving away make you move on?

Early the next morning, I said a quick goodbye with a dry handshake and a promise to keep in touch. Days after my visit, I was still left with a feeling of unfinished business. I tried to pinpoint the source of my frustration with what had happened. Perhaps it was the city. Can a move to a city, any city change someone so drastically?  I then thought about my own experience. Moving to Tokyo was a new beginning for me.  I felt I could adopt a whole new persona if I wanted, and it wasn’t long before I became influenced by culture that surrounded me. I began listening to Enka music, fell in love with tamagoyaki, and started to dress like a Harajuku reject. I guess Yoshi was going through the U.S. version of my transformation, whether I liked it or not.
Much like the Oceanic 6 who were beginning to realize they never meant to leave the island, perhaps neither was my friendship with Yoshi.  Though we’re still friends, I can’t help but feel that somehow, somewhere, something was lost.